Clock Strikes
by Answer
Summary: Cinderella goes to the ball.
1. Chapter 1

My earliest memories of my father, strangely enough, are of waiting for him. Sometimes I'd be half an hour in the carriage outside the house while he 'sorted out his affairs' before whatever journey we were embarking on, usually taking me to visit some rich, elderly relative in the hope that they remember me in their wills.

_"Désolé, princesse,"_ he'd say when he finally arrived, motioning for the footman to close the door of the carriage behind him. He never seemed sorry, but I didn't mind. Not when he called me 'Princess'.

That was Father's dream for me. I was a funny little girl, I hardly dreamed at all. I didn't need to – I had everything I wanted. Father would buy me dresses and beautiful little toys. He said nothing was too good for me. He wanted to raise me to be a lady. He wanted me to marry well. A c_omte_, perhaps. High society. That was why he hired Madame Caquet. He said she would teach me to be a lady of high society. For a few months, she did. She told me about dancing and fans and dressing and make-up. Father always oversaw our lessons, watching me and talking to Madame. We had a good time during those few months. I always felt that Madame Caquet disliked me, that whatever I did, she would never entirely be pleased. I was sad, because I wanted her to like me.

She liked Father, and I knew Father liked her. It wasn't until that dance lesson that I really realised, though. They danced together, slowly, her eyes capturing his, her hands gripping his fingers, as though she would never set him free. We were both trapped.

They were married a month later. She was widowed, like Father, and that was when I met her daughters. Sophie and Mélissande. I tried to like them as my sisters, but I couldn't. Something about them felt…_wrong_ to me, somehow.

At least when we were children, there was the one thing I could say about life with Madame Caquet, and, more to the point, Sophie and Mélissande. Never boring. Many, many things, some of which I could not bring myself to utter aloud even when alone, but never boring. Now, though, all they thought about were men – and the accessories they see as necessary to acquire that favourite commodity. Bonnets, gowns, slippers, powder, lipstick. That was all I did, now. Sew, polish, embroider, tidy their hair, lace up their corsets. That was the only way their dresses would fit. It wasn't that my sisters were fat – they were widely held, among their many suitors, to be the most beautiful ladies in the kingdom, both in face and figure – it was merely that their dresses had been designed for some alien creature of a completely different shape. Every morning, Madame and I would struggle with the laces while the girls screamed. _Il faut souffrir pour être beau _– you have to suffer to be beautiful. One of Madame Caquet's favourite sayings, and one of which she liked to think her daughters were a stunning example.

I never thought I'd miss the days of their games. At least they spoke to me, then. Now, they were too busy, too beautiful even to taunt the servant girl. Because that was what I became, when Father didn't come back. A servant in my own home.

_"Cendrillon…"_ they'd hiss. That was what they called me. Ash-girl. _"Où est ton Papa, Cendrillon? Où est il?"_

It was a question I didn't know the answer to. It was one I asked every night. Where was my father? Why wouldn't he come back?

_"Je… je ne sais pas!" _ I sobbed, honestly. I didn't know. I hadn't known, not since that night. I waved goodbye to him from my bedroom window, even though I knew he wouldn't be looking. That was the last time I saw him.

_"Il est mort, Cendrillon!"_ Sophie cackled, her face inches away from mine, leering.

No, not dead. Not my Papa.

"Non, Sophie! Il…"

_"Oui,"_ Mélissande was enjoying herself.

_"Non!"_ I cried, launching myself at her. I was wild, passionate, incensed. My fingers bent like claws towards her eyes. Mélissande froze with terror, but Sophie screamed. Madame Caquet, followed by half a dozen servants, burst into the room. The expression on her face was one I would never, ever forget.

"Éléonore!" she cried. She used my real name – my given name. Not a curt "Mademoiselle Noblesse", nor even Sophie and Mélissande's childish "_Cendrillon_." She called me Éléonore. It was the first time – and the last.

I think I fainted after that, though I don't know why. That was the last thing I could remember. The world melted around me, and when I woke up, I was in a cold, bare room overlooking the stable yard. It took me a moment to recognise it. This was Marie's room.

Marie was – or had been – one of Mama's ladies' maids. I only vaguely remembered her – as I did Mama. I could see her in my mind, dressing Mama's hair. She'd do it ever so carefully, twisting each strand and piling them up on top of her head, pinning them with special glittering pins. No one else had hair like Mama's. It was long and black and smooth, like threads of the finest silk. Mine was coarse and brown. I looked nothing like Mama.

Marie had been more of a friend to Mama than a servant, talking to her far more often and animatedly than Father's butler would do with him. After Mama died, Marie just…disappeared. She could do things like that. Darn stockings that were worn through in more places than they were whole and have them looking good as new, or, when food had been scarce on Father's land one year, I had seen her make a loaf of bread big enough to feed the whole household from a mixture of ingredients that would have fitted into the cup I could make from my little hands. That was the other strange thing about her – as Mama's maid, her duties were only to follow her orders, but she would often be found mysteriously haunting the kitchen – or anywhere there was work to be done. Everyone knew it, but no one said anything. Why would they? She chose to do jobs that others would otherwise have been forced to do themselves. Even Father knew there was something special about her. Even after Mama's death, he would have kept her on in the house, even when there were no ladies for her to attend to, but she just vanished. A butler had seen her last, or so he said. She had walked into her room, he said, locking the door behind her. When, the next afternoon, having heard no sound from her, they forced the door, they found the room empty. It had been tidied, the sheets pressed and the bed made, and it was as if no one had ever been there. Some claimed that the room was haunted, others suspected Marie – and, occasionally, when the mood took them, each other – of witchcraft, but whatever strange magic it was that had whisked Marie away, no one would enter the room after that.

And now I was trapped here.

They locked me in there for three days, sending in a maid every morning with a bowl of water and a crust of stale bread. They treated me like an animal. That wasn't the worst of it, though. Whenever I closed my eyes to sleep, I fancied I saw a face. I couldn't make out the features, but I knew it was a woman. Somehow, I thought I recognised her. On the third night – the last night – she spoke to me.

"Éléonore," she whispered. I opened my eyes, but saw nothing. The room around me had disappeared. "Éléonore, _je peut t'aider. _I can help you."

But that was it. That was all she said. Those four words and my name. _I can help you._ They echoed round my head every day for the next eight years of my life.

Things only got worse after that. Before, I had been treated like a servant. Now, I was little more than a slave. I performed the most gruelling, horrible of jobs, but I always did the best I could. Despite everything, I still wanted Madame to be pleased with me. She never was. For all those years, I did everything she asked of me, but it still wasn't enough, and slowly, I began to realise. It would never be enough. Whatever Madame Caquet and her daughters thought, I was human. I needed love, and I would never find it here. I needed a plan.

The royal ball was announced weeks in advance, something I might have considered unnecessary had I not plenty of experience of the two Mademoiselles Caquet preparing for a ball. Merely deciding upon a colour for the gowns took some days of bickering and fighting. Invariably, Mélissande would choose a colour, Sophie would declare that she too wanted to dress in 'rose pink with a dash of sunset gold', Madame would insist she choose another, she would select one that clashed horrendously with Mélissande's, and so the process would continue. Then there was the visit to the tailor, the demands for frills and bows to be made, the purchase of new fans and hats and jewels, and, of course, the endless and torturous anticipation. With a royal ball approaching, every member of the household but the ladies themselves would soon find themselves ready to hurl crockery at the next person to declare, "and of course, I shall dance with every young man in the room".

This ball, though, was worse than ever. It was almost as though our beloved royal family were doing this deliberately to spite me. Why, now that I needed more than anything in the world to find the way to my salvation, must they announce the ball at which the Prince – the most eligible and desired bachelor in the kingdom – would choose a wife?

_"Éléonore…" _whispered the voice in my mind. _"I can help you…" _

It was a typical dream. The lowly servant girl, dreaming of a magical solution to her problems. I had waited long enough for my three wishes, for everything to come right in the end. I was going to take this into my own hands.

The day of the ball seemed longer than any other day, not least, I supposed, to Mélissande and Sophie. At breakfast, they could scarcely sit still, despite now being grown ladies of nineteen and twenty-one. When they had finished, and I saw them, from my position in the hall outside the morning room, turn and run for their respective bedrooms the moment they were given permission to rise.

The preparations for the ball took the best part of the day. I escaped for an hour or so to help the stable boys prepare the Madame's carriage and brush the horses' sleek coats, but eventually, I heard "_Cendrillon_!" shrieked from an upstairs window. The girls were apparently making their _toilette._ There would be hell to pay if I didn't go now.


	2. Chapter 2

It seemed to take them years to get ready, as I stood there with one or other of them, pinning and unpinning their hair as they changed their minds about their style, talked incessantly as I did it, and then decided, when I had finished, that I had made them look a fright and must begin again. Then there were faces to be powdered, rouge to be applied, jewels to be sought and draped about their necks – and the dresses. _Dieu,_ the dresses. Each one was a work of art, and it felt like heresy to cram those three ladies into them. I was sure they would tear, but somehow, miraculously, they did not.

It felt as though the evening would never come, but finally, the time for the ladies to depart the house drew nigh. I watched them from an upstairs window – from Mama's room. This was my moment. I had been planning this ever since the invitation arrived. It was the party of the year, the most talked about event within living memory. Everyone who was anyone would be there. I turned around, slowly. There was a mirror on the opposite wall, and in the fading daylight, I saw my reflection. That girl, the one in the mirror – she was someone. She would be at the ball, too.

There was someone behind me – a woman. She was the woman from my dream. Marie.

"Éléonore," she said. I turned, slowly, to look at her.

"What are you doing here?" I asked her, though I knew the answer.

She looked me up and down. I shuffled uneasily, tugging at my tattered skirt.

"It would have broken your mother's heart to see you like this," she said, quietly. I could feel a sob rising in the back of my throat, but I fought it.

"I have a plan," I told her.

"I know," she said, slowly. "Are you sure it's the right thing to do?"

"Yes," I replied, confidently. "She deserves it."

Marie looked down, and I saw for the first time that she had something in her hand. A long, thin, white stick. She twirled it, absently. "Very well," she said, at length. "For your mother's sake – I'll help you."

Though the castle was a good hour's journey away, I arrived, clad in a gown that would not have shamed the vainest of princesses, having missed only three dances.

The ballroom I was shown into was crowded with jostling ladies and gentlemen, all lined up in sets across the middle of the room, or sitting at the edge, absorbed in conversation. All of them, though, had angled their heads towards the centre of the room, towards one man and his partner. I glanced at them, and almost laughed. The prince was dancing with Mélissande. As I approached, darting and weaving through the crowds, I could see that his expression was strained. I could almost have felt sorry for him.

Looking away, I began to search the room for Madame and Sophie, but before I had scanned even a quarter of the room, the dance ended, the couples drifting out of their formation. My task became impossible. There were more people here than I had ever before seen in one room, and there were yet more rooms leading from the ballroom that I had seen guests drifting in and out of. I raised my eyes heavenwards, thinking. There was a gallery above me, a corridor overlooking the ballroom.

I slipped away, walking through a door to the right of the one I had entered by – but not before I had seen the prince exit by the one on the left.

The gallery was easy enough to find, up a flight of stair and along a passage, back in the direction of the ballroom. From the top, I could see that it ran all the way around the top of the room, allowing the dancers to be viewed from all angles. The orchestra had started up again, and the prince was now conspicuous by his absence. I moved quickly around the edge, scanning the room. There was a flaw in this scheme, I realised. Even if I did see them, there was no guarantee that they wouldn't have moved by the time I re-entered the ballroom. Sighing in frustration, I turned around to leave, but stopped. The prince was standing behind me, just watching me, silently. He seemed about to speak, but I panicked and ran away, hurrying back down the stairs so that I could lose myself in the crowd. I felt his piercing gaze follow me.

Back downstairs, I was lost again. I thought about just climbing onto one of the tables that lined the edges of the immense room and shouting, but that wasn't what I'd had in mind. Besides, from the amount of noise the guests were making, and with the orchestra trying their best to compete with them, I doubted I could make myself heard. I had to choose my moment.

I despaired of finding them before dinner, however. I knew about these royal balls – Madame had taught me herself, when she still worked for Father. There would be a fixed number of dances, followed by a meal, where all the guests would sit together at a table. For three courses and coffee, this seething, milling crowd of nobles would have to stay still and behave itself. And then, maybe, I would have my chance.

I resolved to take a seat and await dinner. The prince returned to the room soon after and was instantly surrounded by women, all of whom he was obliged to promise a dance to. I wondered that he didn't appear to enjoy this attention. I'd imagined a man willing to choose a bride after a single dance would be the sort to delight in female company, and to be none too particular as to the specifics of that company – though he would, of course, choose a noblewoman. Heaven forbid the heir to our throne would lower himself to the level of even the most good and gentle of peasant girls.

I watched one dance after another, the couples swirling before me, lulling me almost into a dream. I scarcely noticed when a figure approached, casting a shadow across my vision.

"Mademoiselle," began a voice. It was a moment before I realised I was being addressed. "Will you do me the honour of allowing me this dance?"

I glanced up, feeling the skin on my face stretch in surprise. It was the prince.

I couldn't answer him. I inclined my head slightly in what the prince took to be a nod. I stood up, and he led me to the centre of the room.

I danced with him. I danced, though I didn't know the steps. I danced with every eye in the room upon me. They wondered who I was. For a moment, so did I. Because this evening, I wasn't _Cendrillon_, Mme. Caquet's servant girl. I wasn't even Mademoiselle Noblesse, the daughter of a wealthy, ambitious merchant. I was just… _Éléonore_.

When the dance ended and dinner was announced, I made to move away from the prince, but he held my arm.

"Stay," he said. "There is a place reserved at the head of the table, you must join me there."

I couldn't argue with him. A moment later, I was seated to his right, only a seat away from the king himself. The queen sat opposite her son, and next to her, across the table from me, was the princess, the prince's younger sister. She smiled at me from across the table as I stared, bemused, at my vast array of cutlery, and she shrugged.

"Don't worry," she said. "It's only there to amuse Papa." She gestured down the table. "Look at them." I looked. All the way down our head table, and, in fact, all across the room, the guests were picking up and comparing fish knives, butter knives, forks and spoons – some of which I doubted even Madame Caquet could have identified – in total bewilderment. A few seats down, I could hear a heated whispered debate breaking out. All of these people were so desperate to impress. "Papa had the extra ones placed especially," she said, and giggled. I smiled at her. It struck me that she'd be a wonderful person to have as a friend – not that we'd ever speak again. Not with what I had in mind.

"You'll find," said the prince, exchanging glances with his mother as he selected a knife and fork at random. "That like most great rulers, my father is both brilliant and mad."

I cast a glance at the king, who smiled, congenially.

"Now," he said, a grin playing around his lips. "Look what you've done. Handing out royal secrets before the poor girl's even been properly introduced!" He turned to me. "Tell me, my dear, what is your name?"

I looked around wildly for inspiration, but nothing came. I cursed my lack of imagination.

"Leonore," I managed, eventually. "Leonore Gervais." Gervais – mother's surname. It seemed to satisfy him.

"A pleasure to meet you, Leonore."

Though I spent the whole meal craning my neck to try and find them – probably to the confusion of my hosts – it wasn't until the fruit bowls and gateaux that had comprised dessert had been cleared away and trays of steaming cups of coffee brought in that I saw Madame and her daughters. They were on a table on the far side of the room, no doubt reserved for those the king would prefer not to have to talk to. I was beginning to realise that there was more to this family than met the eye.

When I saw them, I was surprised I hadn't noticed them before. They were staring fixedly at our table – and, in particular, at me. If looks could have spoken words, I suspected that many of the young ladies in the room would have had to cover their ears.

The prince saw me looking at them. "Are you acquainted with those young ladies?" he asked.

I nodded, slowly, looking at him to avoid meeting those stares. "Yes."

He noted my expression, raising his eyebrows. "I take it your opinion does little to recommend them?"

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ears, sensing my opportunity approach, far better than I could have planned it. "No. We have long been… on poor terms with one another." I smoothed a crease in my skirt. "But they would not, I think, know me now."

His gaze strayed over my head, and I looked around. Mélissande and Sophie had crossed the room and were standing behind me. Madame Caquet was close behind them. I felt all the horror and fear of being hopelessly outnumbered.

"I beg your pardon," Mélissande began. "But my sister and I have been watching you from the other side of the room and you looked terribly familiar. May I enquire as to your name?"

The prince answered for me, his expression hardening somewhat. "This is Mademoiselle Leonore Gervais."

Sophie sniggered, and I realised how poor my disguise must be. I _felt_ different, being treated in this manner, but that couldn't hide who I was.

Mélissande smiled, nastily. "Perhaps, Mademoiselle _Gervais_, you would not mind stepping outside for a moment?"

"I…" I forced myself to calm down. I had rights here, among these people. I had the right to refuse – and, come what consequences there may have been later, I was determined to use it. "No," I replied. "The cold night air would disagree with me. Please accept my apologies."

Mélissande and Sophie withdrew slightly, taken aback, but Mme. Caquet was unfazed.

"That," she said, softly, but loud enough for the king and all around us to hear. "Is an order."

I realised, then, that we were being watched. All around us, dukes, earls, lords and ladies all turned in their seats to stare at the lady treating the girl the prince had invited to the royal table as his guest like a common serving maid. Even the servants had frozen where they stood, some with coffee cups half way between the tray and the table.

The prince was the first to react.

"Madame!" he exclaimed. "You are making a spectacle of yourself. What argument can you have with this lady that gives you the right to issue orders?"

Madame Caquet opened her mouth, and I knew the words that would come out of them before she even spoke.

"This creature is no lady. She is a common servant, a maid in my household. She has no business being here, and, by your leave, sir, I shall punish her directly."

A collective gasp of shock rippled around the room, and hundreds of eyes turned to look at me. I didn't look at the prince and his family. They had been so kind to me, but I'd known this moment would come. I'd been counting on it. After this moment, I'd been sure nothing else would matter. After all those years of being hurt by the woman who should have loved me as a daughter, I would be able to hurt her in the way that she would feel the most – to denounce her in front of all these people, to have the society she both loved and feared know her for what she truly was. This was what I had been planning all along. I would stand up, and I would tell them. I would save myself. At least, that was what I had been planning.

They were waiting for me, yet suddenly, I wasn't ready. Could I do this? Could I do this to her – to myself? My life with her had been horrible, but without her, where would I go? What would I do with myself? Find a job – earn board and keep in another house under another woman who would issue me with order after order? I would never be free, that much was plain. My fight was over before it was begun, and for all I hated them, there was no reason to bring Madame, Sophie and Mélissande down with me.

The prince was still fighting for me, but a note of uncertainty was apparent in his voice. "You shall do no such thing," he told her. I would have smiled if I hadn't been close to tears. Finally, someone issuing Madame with an order! The prince turned to me. "Leonore, is this true?"

I couldn't answer. Tears swam across my vision, and I ducked and ran from the room, the guests parting like a shoal of fish diving from a shark. I heard the prince call after me, and then the room, and the people and the awful truth I would have to face were all behind me, and I was in the garden.

There was a pond a little distance away from the castle, with a bench beside it. Suddenly exhausted, I sank on to it, staring fixedly into the pond, trying not to think about Madame, or the prince, or freedom – in fact, trying not to think at all. It was easier that way.

I wondered what I'd do if he came after me, if he, like Marie, offered to help me – to save me, even, be my knight in shining armour come to rescue me from my wicked stepmother. It was a dream, sure enough, and a solution – if not much of a possibility. Not only did he barely know me, I had now been revealed to have been reaching well above my station into the bargain. But, supposing he did, and supposing I accepted – what then? I would be bound be a debt, I would belong to him. Was that what I wanted? That would not be freedom, and freedom was what I wanted, I was sure of that if nothing else.

Perhaps that was the solution to my problem. Perhaps the only person keeping me a prisoner was me.

There were fish in the pond. Cool and smooth and beautiful, with sparkling scales and fins that rippled with the water. I watched them, swirling around, chasing one another, diving through weed. It was a complicated dance, yet all of them seemed to know it instinctively. There was a voice behind me.

"Éléonore," he said, gently.

I turned around, realising for the first time that dark had fallen. Above us, the moon was high in the sky. It was as if the world had aged three hours without my noticing. I shivered, suddenly cold. "What time is it?" I asked, but I knew before he answered.

Midnight. I stood up, my ragged, filthy dress bathed eerie shades in the moonlight. The spell was broken.


End file.
